


The Language of Flowers

by Briar_Rose_Bramble



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-25
Updated: 2015-05-03
Packaged: 2018-02-10 08:35:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2018265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Briar_Rose_Bramble/pseuds/Briar_Rose_Bramble
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Someone is using Game of Thorns' new online ordering service to send anonymous bouquets to Storybrooke's reclusive antiques dealer, Mr. Gold.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_The trouble_ , Belle knew, _was money_. There was never quite enough of it for quite long enough. It had plagued her father for as long as she could remember, and now that she was old enough to want to have her own place, it was beginning to plague her too.

If the love of money was the root of all evil, the lack of money was certainly the cause of severe disgruntlement.

As far as she could tell, making money was simple. You needed to identify a gap in the current market and find a way to fill it. The theory was sound, but the practice was proving harder than she had first expected, especially considering that she had little more than a high school diploma and a minor flair for flower arranging to recommend her to the world. Simple, perhaps, but far from easy.

 _Still, at least the latter was keeping her gainfully employed_ , she reminded herself, pulling the car over to the curb and shifting it into park before she checked the address on her clipboard. Collecting the bouquet from the back seat, she crunched her way up the gravel path to knock on the door.

The door was opened by a harassed-looking blonde in her forties. On seeing Belle, her face softened and she took the flowers with gentle thanks and a smile.

It was a nice job, really. Most people were happy to receive flowers and well wishes, even if it was on a sad occasion. Belle had written the message on the attached card and knew that the woman was grieving, yet the flowers had given her cause to smile, even if it was only for a moment.

Smiling herself, Belle let herself back into the car and pulled out her phone to update the order status to 'delivered' before heading back to Game of Thorns.

She was just pulling out onto Main Street when her phone beeped cheerily, letting her know that another order had been placed. The online ordering facility had been her idea, and so far it was Belle's project, her father still not having come to grips with the simple system. She'd taken the additional responsibility to heart, adding stuffed animals and balloons to the growing inventory, and was also researching the feasibility of offering chocolates and champagne, like the larger chain florists did elsewhere.

It was a wonderful challenge and Belle was proud of the increased sales, but it wasn't really enough to support her on her own.

Pulling up beside her father's van, Belle carefully manoeuvred the wet delivery trays from the back seat to carry inside to clean. Ideally, the company van would be much easier to load and unload, but Moe needed it, too, and the business couldn't really stretch to a second.

She staggered through the shop door and out into the back, calling a cheery hello as she did. Sluicing the things in the large sink was the swiftest way to clean them, even if it usually meant splashing the dirty water down her legs.

"I'm going to be closing up soon, honey," her dad called from the front. "Are you nearly done?"

"Just about," she replied, washing her hands. "How's it been?"

"Steady," he answered from the doorway. "Nothing spectacular. A funeral order has come in for next week and there's a function at the Mayor's office the following Tuesday. You?"

"Good," she answered, drying her hands so that she could hold his arm to lean in and kiss his cheek without soaking him. Her father was invariable neat and tidy, whereas Belle was usually covered in damp leaves and fallen petals by ten o'clock in the morning. "The good folk of Storybrooke may be finally getting the hang of internet ordering. Actually, I think another order's just come through." She checked her phone, wondering for an umpteenth time whether she could justify the expense of a tablet, and gasped. "Oh wow, someone's ordered two dozen red roses."

Her father raised his eyebrows, gesturing for her to continue. Although that was a less common order this side of Valentine's Day, they sold roses on a daily basis.

"Long stem, deluxe," she continued. "It's a rush order, to be delivered today. They've paid the last minute delivery fee and everything." She looked up, grinning. "That's an extra twenty dollars!"

Moe let out a long whistle; it was an order worth nearly three hundred dollars. "Someone's in trouble," he surmised. "I wonder what he did."

"Who knows? It's a company credit card – DLS Ltd, apparently – and the delivery is anonymous. And," she added, "the recipient is one Mr. R Gold, no message."

Her father simply shrugged. "It takes all types, I suppose. Will you be alright handling it, if I call it a day? I was going to make your mom's spaghetti tonight."

"Well, I can hardly argue with that, can I? Just see if you can find a recipe this time, okay?"

Belle had been nine years old when her mother died; older than many of the others who had lost parents, but still far, far too young. All through her mother's illness, her father had struggled tirelessly to nurse his fading wife, to raise the odd, bookish daughter who looked just like her, and to keep Gloria French's little floral business running, even though he barely knew a dahlia from a delphinium. When her mother was gone, Moe still spent all his energy on the things her mother had loved; her daughter and her flowers.

It wasn't easy, Belle realized as she grew older, but through dint of sheer determination, Moe had done a fairly good job with both. Perhaps Belle's clothes were never quite as fashionable as her school friends, but that didn't matter; Belle liked beautiful things, it was true, but she had more than enough already, her waking hours filled with flowers. Luckily, she even enjoyed her father's attempts at cooking, even if the results were varied to say the least.

"We'll see," he promised. "Don't be too late."

* * *

 

Belle hummed idly along with the radio as she carefully trimmed the stems. Her father liked to focus his entire being on his arrangements, but Belle's mind tended to wander as she worked. She was measuring lengths of deep red ribbon when the DJ invited the listeners to call in to discuss that evening's topic.

"Illiterate America," he exclaimed across the airwaves. "It's today's top story. Are we letting our young people down? Is adult literacy really as low as it was in 1957? And how about closer to home? Given its relative affluence, how come Storybrooke has less than the national average number of books per household? Your thoughts, please!"

The first caller, a local school teacher, seemed well informed about the state of things "Storybrooke's library closed shortly after the crash due to budget cuts," she explained. "Yet the Mayor's office was redecorated twice in the last three years."

"And there's not even a bookshop since Mr. Greer retired," Belle added to herself, moments before the caller made the same point.

It was just starting to get dark when Belle set the alarm and locked the store door firmly behind her. She would have liked to stay behind to hear the rest of the debate – the Mayor's own press secretary had got involved and things were getting heated – but the customer had paid extra to have the flowers delivered that evening, and Belle took her responsibilities very seriously.

The delivery address turned out to be an antiques store just off the old town square. Belle tried the door and was relieved when it opened, as no second address had been provided. The shop was dimly lit, the main light coming from the office at the back, but there was enough illumination for Belle to look around in interest.

The shop smelled of dust and lemon polish, and the shelves and display cabinets were almost overflowing with all manner of objects. One corner seemed to be filled with antique coal scuttles, while a table by the window was a sea of cake stands and tea sets. The walls were so covered in mirrors, paintings and clocks that Belle could only guess at the colour of the paint beneath.

"Can I help you?"

Belle jumped, having been so caught up in her perusal of the shop that she hadn't heard the owner arrive from the back, but quickly recovered herself, turning to greet him with a smile.

"Mr. Gold?" she asked. "I'm here to deliver these."

He was slightly built, not much taller than her, and was so precisely dressed that Belle fleetingly wondered if her father's insinuation that he was being sent flowers by another man might be correct. She had always thought that her father was neat, but even he would have looked sadly underdressed compared to the antique dealer's impeccably tailored suit.

"How lovely," he replied, his accent adding an odd lilt to the words. British, Belle decided, possibly Scottish. It wasn't until he moved forward that Belle realized he was leaning rather heavily upon a walking stick. "Who are they from?"

"The order was placed anonymously," Belle explained. "There's not even a note. Maybe you have a secret admirer?"

"A nice thought, dearie," he dismissed her suggestion, but took the bouquet from her and examined the roses thoughtfully. His hair fell forward as he breathed in their scent, catching the fading light. "These are lovely flowers."

"Thank you," Belle replied, her smile growing. He struck her as a man who understood and appreciated quality, and Belle had no reason to suspect his praise was anything but sincere. "Well, I'll leave you to your evening, Mr. Gold."

"Wait," he called. "Do you have a business card, Miss—?"

"French," she supplied. "Our contact details are on the card here—" she stepped forward to pluck the card from the flowers for him to read.

"Ah yes, of course." He stepped back slightly, neatly dodging her outstretched hand. "Well, thank you again, Miss French."

"You're welcome," she replied, understanding herself to have been dismissed. She took one final glance around the curious little shop before letting herself out, hoping that she might have the opportunity to return soon for a more thorough exploration.

* * *

 

That night over dinner, Belle asked her father what he knew of Mr. Gold. He looked at her thoughtfully, before shaking his head and sighing.

"I can't think why I didn't place the name before. He's our landlord."

"Is he?" Belle demanded. "How come I didn't know that?"

"He never involves himself with tenants," Moe explained. "Just lets an agent take care of it all. I met him when you were little, to sign the contract with your mom, but if I've spoken to him more than half a dozen times since then I’d be surprised."

"He seemed sad," Belle realized aloud. "Is he married?"

"He had a wife and child, a boy I think, but he lost them both in the car crash that damaged his leg. That was long before we moved here. Apparently he used to be the ruthless businessman in his day, half the town used to be terrified of him – still are, by all accounts – but now he just sits in his antiques shop and lets Gentle Dove collect his rents."

Belle smiled at her father's nickname for the mountain of a man who visited their shop each month to collect the rent. It suited him well, for while Mr. Dove was a little intimidating at first, he was actually something of a sweetheart. Belle had kept up her mother's tradition of giving him a little posy of offcuts whenever he arrived to collect the rents near Valentine's Day, and he never failed to blush.

Her smile faded as she recalled the air of sadness that had haunted Mr. Gold. "The poor man."

"It's not easy, losing family," her dad agreed. "At least I've always had you to look after me."

"Oh, Papa," Belle murmured, taking his hand over the table. Moe returned the gesture with a squeeze of his fingers and they finished their dinner in silence.

* * *

 

Another order was placed precisely one week later. Belle had been out delivering table arrangements to a hotel for an event, and the order had been picked up and put together by Charlotte, who sometimes helped out at the shop when they were swamped with orders. She was a couple of years younger than Belle and found the new system easy to use.

 _If business stayed good_ , Belle mused, _it would be lovely to take her on permanently_. Her father really should be starting to slow down slightly and Belle didn't intend on working in the florist shop forever. Knowing her father had some extra support would ease her mind when the opportunity to leave finally arose.

Mr. Gold was third on her list, and it wasn't until she had delivered the other two bouquets that she realized he was yet again the recipient of an anonymous bouquet. Another two dozen roses, the blooms fat and headily scented.

 _Charlotte had done a good job with the arrangement_ , Belle realized distractedly, scooping them up and taking a sniff. _Maybe it was time to talk with her father about increasing her hours?_

This time, the store was flooded with natural light and Belle itched to explore further, but the owner was already standing behind the counter, watching her intently. She flashed him a smile, which he didn't return, and held the bouquet aloft.

"You can't tell me that you don't have an admirer now," she teased, doing her best to ignore the Aladdin's cave of treasures that surrounded her and focus on her task instead. "Another bouquet."

"Welcome back, Miss French," he greeted placidly. "Is there a note this time?"

"I'm afraid not," she replied. "Do you really not know who they're from?" Most people could easily guess who might be sending them flowers. Even if they weren't certain, everyone knew who they _hoped_ might be behind the gesture.

Apparently Mr. Gold was one of the rare exceptions. "I do not."

"Oh well," Belle deflected, lifting the bouquet for him to take. "It must be nice to have someone think of you."

"Depends what they're thinking," he replied, a slight smirk drawing up the side of his mouth. He reached out and took the flowers, his fingers just brushing hers. "Do you understand the language of flowers, Miss French?"

"Enough to know that red roses speak of romantic love," she answered before her innate honesty prodded her to qualify, "Usually."

This time it was his eyebrow that quirked. "Usually?"

"Well, they can also represent Christ's blood, but that's a rather uncommon interpretation these days." She reached out to brush the outer petals of the closest bloom with her fingertip. "The five petals represent the five wounds he received during the crucifixion."

"That's certainly less romantic," he deadpanned. "Two dozen roses would indicate, what, a hundred and twenty wounds?"

Belle smiled, warming to her topic. "I'm sure you know the story of St Valentine. Red roses came to represent the blood of Christian martyrs, which is where the tradition of giving roses on Valentine's Day comes from. None of it is _particularly_ romantic when you look at it that way."

He lifted the bouquet to breathe in their delicate scent. "You're very knowledgeable about this."

Belle had the impression that Mr. Gold was a man who appreciated knowledge as much as he appreciated quality.

"It's my job," she replied with a shrug of her shoulders. "If I'm to be a florist, I'd like to be the best I can."

His eyebrow twitched again and Belle wondered what had made her speak like that to a customer. Thankfully he didn't seem inclined to question her and she let herself out of the shop with a cheerful wave.

* * *

 

The third bouquet was met with quiet displeasure, Mr. Gold's lips thinning when he saw the flowers.

"Leave them on the counter, if you would, Miss French," was all he said.

Catching his mood, Belle didn't tease him this time. She left the roses on the glass counter by the door, next to a pair of truly creepy marionettes, and left.

She thought about him a lot after that.


	2. Chapter 2

The last dregs of the summer heat began to fade and fall moved in with a vengeance. As well as darker evenings, the air began to grow cool the moment the sun faded and it wouldn't be long until the trees lost their riot of colourful leaves.

It was an especially lovely time of year in Storybrooke that never failed to give Belle a little shiver of excitement. There was a feeling of endless possibility in the way the gusty winds stirred the tree tops and sent the fishing boats bobbing up and down on their moorings. In reality, Belle knew all that was coming to Storybrooke was rain, then snow and quite possibly ice storms, but with everything bathed in golden autumnal light, it was easy to hope for more.

Romance seemed to be in the air, too, if Belle's next delivery of two dozen long stem red roses was anything to go by. Thankfully, she'd made the decision to hold slightly more in stock than usual, in case Mr Gold's admirer continued to order them, so there were enough for this delivery as well.

There was little of Storybrooke that was new to Belle, but this latest delivery had taken her to a leafy suburb further east than her usual deliveries. It was a very nice part of town, with large gracious houses with well-maintained gardens.

When Belle pulled up outside 402 St George Street, her first impression was one of dusky pink and black. A second look, however, assured her that the house was actually a pale terracotta, with the woodwork picked out in dark green. Her car looked sadly out of place compared to the sleek, modern vehicles on every drive and she shut the door carefully, not wanting to make more noise than absolutely necessary.

The house was a graceful Victorian, set back from the road, with large bay windows. The double doors were filled with stained glass, and Belle wondered how the hallway must look when the setting sun flooded in. It was an odd jumble of colours, but it gave the house a rather distinct character, like the grand old lady she was.

Belle gave the bouquet – simply addressed _to Robert_ – a final check, although she had far more faith in their appearance than her own, before knocking.

The homeowner was slow coming to the door, but the glass panels gave Belle a glimpse of their shadow with its familiar, uneven gait. The door opened inwards and the occupant frowned at her in obvious displeasure.

"Oh."

"Hello, dearie," Mr Gold – _Robert_ , Belle realized – bit out. "This is starting to become something of a habit."

"I'm _so_ sorry," Belle spluttered. "I had no idea that you were Robert."

He glanced up and down the deserted street and sighed. "Miss French, do you think you might do me the favour of desisting from bringing me flowers?"

"Of course" she squeaked. "I'm so, so sorry! I had no idea that someone might use the online ordering service to invade your privacy like this."

It was true. Although one anonymous bouquet was the height of romance, a fourth delivery – this time to his home address – was the very definition of stalkerish behavior.

Mr Gold pursed his lips and stared at her in apparent consideration. "Come inside," he bid. He strode down the hallway, leaving the door open, not even bothering to glance behind to see if Belle was following.

She hesitated on the stoop for a moment, before a glimpse of the intriguing collection of art and oddments inside the hall had her heading across the threshold.

Belle found Mr Gold in the kitchen at the back of the house. She looked around in open interest as he inspected the bouquet thoroughly. Belle, having arranged the flowers less than an hour ago, knew that there was nothing to be found among the sturdy stems, but refrained from pointing this out, knowing that _Robert_ would not appreciate it.

"Someone might simply have a crush on you," she offered hopefully.

He snorted. "If you can't be helpful, perhaps you'd better keep quiet."

"It's not completely unlikely," she reasoned. Mr Gold was a handsome, smartly dressed and wealthy man in a town where any of the three could be considered a rarity. "Perhaps it is _just_ a secret admirer."

"There is nothing admirable about me," he snapped, glancing up. "And stop that."

"Stop what?" she frowned.

"Stop looking at me like that. I assure you the view will not improve."

"Oh for goodness' sake!" Belle snapped back. "We both know the view is fine! However, I think we can safely say that it would have to be an admirer who's never had the opportunity to actually talk to you. You're like a bear with a sore head."

He stared at her blankly before blinking. "How did they pay?" he asked, somewhat dazed.

Belle, having just replayed her own words in her head, flushed, internally cursing her apparently unbreakable habit of saying exactly what she was thinking, even to a customer. Her father was a brave man to let her represent his beloved business. Thankfully Mr Gold seemed more surprised that offended.

"It was a company credit card, the first time. I didn't process all the orders though; I'd need to check."

"Will you have records?" he pressed.

"Of course, although I'd need to speak to dad before I can release customer information." She had no idea if it was even allowed, after all. "I think it might be an idea to get some legal advice, too. Do you think I should report this to the police?"

"What, that someone is sending me flowers?" Gold grinned impishly, and Belle was intrigued by the flash of gold in his uneven smile. "While the whole town would agree that it’s suspicious, I don't think there's much of a case there."

He was right, of course. No police officer would investigate a few anonymous bouquets of roses, yet Belle couldn't shake the feeling that Mr Gold was right to be concerned; there was nothing romantic about these orders.

* * *

 

Belle tapped the number into her phone keypad, feeling unaccountably nervous. He'd asked her to call him if the need arose, but it felt oddly daring all the same. The call was answered within three rings.

His brusque "Yes?" didn't help.

"Mr Gold? It's Belle French, the florist? There's… there's been another order."

"I see. Thank you, Miss French."

"Wait!" she called before he could hang up. "There's more. This order is different. Bitter sweet, yellow carnations, marigolds, orange lilies."

He was quiet for a moment.

"Is that a standard arrangement?"

"Hardly. They would look surprisingly well together, but it certainly isn't a traditional arrangement. Bittersweet is normally used for garlands and is known to be poisonous. We only have it in because the mayor wanted her office decorated for the fall."

"Fascinating."

Belle took this to mean that she was rambling and decided to cut to the chase. "You know you asked about the language of flowers? Well, I got to thinking that there might be a message in there."

There was another pause. "I assume you've already deciphered it?"

He assumed correctly. "Truth, disappointment, cruelty," she recited. "Orange lilies mean hatred."

"I guess the idea of an admirer has gone out the window?"

Belle cringed. "I'm sorry. I'm going to take down the site."

"No," he replied. "Keep it going. And deliver the flowers."

"Mr Gold?"

"Please. I would like my admirer to know that their message has been delivered."

A cold, sick sort of feeling flooded her stomach. "You think these deliveries are being watched?"

"It wouldn't be outside the realms of possibility."

"Oh," she breathed. "Okay. I'll see you later then."

"Later," he replied, ending the call.

Belle began to move around the store, collecting the blooms she would need for the bouquet in a daze. This latest order had taken things from slightly creepy to downright sinister.

"I need to make a delivery," she called to her father. "Will you be alright without me?"

"I think I can manage," Moe replied. "Are you alright, you look rather pale?"

Belle considered telling him, but something stopped her. "I'm fine," she replied. "Just a little hungry. I might pick us something up on my way back." She put the finishing touches to the bouquet, wrapping the stems in bronze crepe from their fall collection and looping gold ribbon into a bow at the base.

Scooping the flowers up into her arms, she paused to reach up onto her tiptoes to press a kiss to her father's cheek.

"Love you," she confided rather desperately before grabbing her keys. "I won't be long."

Moe waved her away, used to his daughter's odd ways. "Yes, yes, Bluebelle. Off you go."

* * *

 

Despite the uncomfortable nature of her visit, Belle couldn't help but enjoy entering the antiques store again. Although she had barely let herself look around during her previous visits, she was certain that there were new things crowding for space along the sturdy shelves, and itched to investigate.

Mr Gold smiled briefly as their eyes met, and Belle was as surprised as before at how much it softened his face. Apparently by visiting his house she had crossed the line from delivery person to acquaintance; perhaps another half dozen bouquets might even see them edging closer to tentative friendship. Then his eyes flicked to the assortment of oranges and golds in her arms, and the smile faded until Belle wondered if she'd imagined it.

He came round the counter to meet her, his cane tapping on the floor.

"Here you go," she handed over the flowers. "Just be careful not to eat any of the berries."

He raised an eyebrow. "Thank goodness you were here to warn me."

"Oh, and here." Belle reached inside her pocket to retrieve the second posy she'd gathered together before leaving the store.

Mr Gold took it with his free hand and stared mutely at the little nosegay. "Thank you?"

"White heather," she explained. "It's for protection. Silly, I know, but I couldn’t just bring you that other bunch without balancing it out a little. It should bring you luck."

"Thank you," he repeated, and this time his voice was sincere. "It's a nice sentiment."

Belle smiled sadly as she turned to leave.

"Miss French?" Gold called. "Be careful. These flowers are aimed at me, but you've become involved now. Just… be careful."

"And you," she replied. "Goodnight."

She paused at the door. Gold was still standing by the counter, both bunches of flowers in his arms. Once again, Belle was struck by the sadness that seemed to linger over him, and found herself wondering if he was lonely.

"The flowers were paid for by a company credit card," she informed him, suddenly wishing she could offer him more. "DLS Holdings. The address was for a P.O. Box. I'll call you — if anything else happens. Goodnight."

* * *

 

Belle was hosing down the steps at the back of the store when her cell vibrated in her pocket. Wiping her free hand on her apron, she fished it from her jeans and held it to her ear.

"Miss French?"

"Hello?"

"It's Robert," the voice clarified. "Robert Gold." The pause that followed was so long that Belle had time to shut off the water. When he spoke again he sounded hesitant and odd, nothing like his previous clipped phone manner. Perhaps it was the line, but Belle could have sworn he sounded… hopeful. "I have something to show you. Do you think you might come round?"

"I'm busy until late I'm afraid. Dad's driven up to Bangor to visit a potential new supplier and I'm minding the store."

"There's no rush," he replied immediately, his voice back to normal. "It doesn't matter."

"But I can call by yours afterwards," Belle offered. "Maybe about nine?"

"Thank you, Miss French. I appreciate this."

Belle dropped the phone into her apron pocket and shivered. Something about Robert's call had caused the tiny hairs at the back of her neck to stand to attention, as if a storm was closing in.

* * *

 

The door opened at her knock and a fruit crate full of small potted plants was thrust into Belle's arms without preamble.

"This was delivered today," Gold informed her tersely.

Belle frowned at the collection of miss-matched flowers, wondering if they were somehow her fault. "What is it?"

"I thought you were the expert?" he groused.

"In popular flowers, but I'm no herbologist." She brushed past him, carrying the box through to the kitchen and placing it on the counter to better study the flowers. One stood tall at the center, like a pompom on its long stem. "This one looks like a pincushion."

"Useful," Gold drawled, coming to rest behind her.

Belle attempted to mimic the trick he had of disdainfully quirking his eyebrows. "It's the popular name for scabiosa."

"Oh." It was as close to an apology as she was likely to get. "Scabiosa. That really doesn't sound pleasant."

"This one might be yarrow," Belle hazarded, pointing at the clusters of tiny flowers with frond-like leaves. "The pansy is more within my field, but it's still not something we have in the shop. I thought about branching out into potted plants considering that we do so well with poinsettias at Christmas, but there wasn't a stockist close enough to make it economic."

"Will these have meanings?" he asked.

"Probably," she replied, before realizing that he was asking for her help. "Do you have a laptop?"

He nodded, heading back to the door. "Follow me."

Belle should have known that a man like Robert Gold would have a study, complete with an imposing dark mahogany desk and shelves of legal-looking textbooks. His PC was ultramodern, shiny black, and ridiculously sexy for a piece of electronic equipment. The fiber optic mouse was so fast that Belle struggled to keep up with it, sending it straight past the icon she was aiming for. The thing had booted up so quickly that Belle hadn't even had the time to wallow in entirely understandable envy. Belle tried to imagine ever having something so nice in the apartment she shared with her father and failed miserably.

All the while, Robert hovered just behind her. His presence didn't make her nervous, per se, but it was distracting.

"Can I get you a drink, Miss French?" he offered, apparently growing tired of watching her open and dismiss half a dozen websites out of hand.

Belle turned to smile up at him. "I'd love a cup of tea."

He hesitated. "I only have coffee."

Belle glanced at her watch. It was far too late to be drinking coffee, but there was already something of a conspiratorial buzz to the evening and she would hate to lose it to tiredness. After all, she had no idea how long her search might take.

"Coffee would be lovely," she smiled.

He returned with a delicate china cup of coffee and a tea plate with a selection of cookies. He leaned over her shoulder to follow her search on screen this time, and Belle caught a whisper of his cologne, spicy and rich.

It was so nice to be able to sit in a house like this and enjoy his coffee – fresh, not out of a jar – and his ridiculously fast broadband, that Belle had to sternly remind herself why she was there. This wasn't a social call, Robert had simply called on her as a specialist to consult on a rather obscure field. She longed to try one of the cookies, but was terrified of getting crumbs in the keyboard or grease on the mouse. Both were so clean that they gave the impression of never having been used before.

Robert settled himself in an armchair by the bookcase. It was positioned perfectly between the window and the tall lamp and would have been the perfect place to curl up with a book.

Not that Belle could imagine Robert curling up with anything. Her cheeks heated slightly at the suggestion.

"Okay," she announced eventually. "After trawling various herbology sites, I think I have successfully identified this –" she prodded the pin cushion – "as a _scabiosa_ _atropurpurea_ , also known as mournful bride or mournful widow. It means 'unfortunate attachment', or 'I have lost all.'" She pointed to each of the other plants in turn. "Yarrow, I declare war. Purple pansy, you occupy my thoughts."

Pulling himself to his feet, Gold made his way to her side to re-examine the flowers. "That seems a rather pointed message."

Belle watched him, surprised at how much his sadness seemed to hurt her. Although Mr Gold and his flowers had started out as a mystery that she wanted to solve, the more she had learned about her reclusive landlord, the more she wanted to know.

"You don't seem surprised," she realized aloud. Saddened, yes, perturbed by the dark message as anyone would be, but not shocked.

Her father had hinted at Gold's dark past though, hadn't he? Spoken of a harsh businessman who mixed in dangerous circles and terrified his tenants. Belle had brushed such a notion aside, unable to equate a vicious money lender with the reserved, softly spoken man she knew. _Her_ Robert Gold could be sharp tongued and unpleasant, but he was also hesitant, full of surprised gratitude at her willingness to help him, and oddly wistful.

Yet here was an obvious link with the past, _his_ past, and an unpleasant link at that. The flowers, with the increasingly less than subtle threats, hinted at someone who wanted revenge.

As if following her thoughts, Robert leaned against the desk beside her, his eyes fixed on the floor. "Do you know my story?" he asked. "I used to be… well known in these parts."

"Dad told me you lost your wife and child in a car accident," Belle answered truthfully.

"I'd already lost my wife," he sighed. "Milah – Emilia, really – was never really happy with me. She came from money and—" he paused and scrubbed the back of his hand across his face. "Let's head back to the lounge, shall we? This isn't a story I can tell without a drink in my hand."

He poured himself a large measure of deep amber liquid from a decanter that could have been either whisky or brandy for all Belle knew, then reached for a second glass and poured an equal measure for her. Belle accepted the heavy, cut glass tumbler, not knowing how she could refuse him, even if she knew she couldn’t actually drink more than half of it and still be safe to drive home.

At his invitation, Belle settled herself in one of the armchairs in the large window and took a tentative sip. It was Scotch, dark and peaty, and very possibly as old as she was. It wasn't the sort of drink you wasted on someone who was unlikely to appreciate it. Belle wondered if Robert realized that he had just marked her as his equal by blithely handing her such a connoisseur's drink or if he was too preoccupied to even consider it.

He looked tired, Belle realized, and it made him look old. She'd always been aware of their different social status, but this was the first time that she had been truly conscious of the difference in their ages.

Belle had never even had a long term relationship with a man that wasn't fictional, yet Robert had already married and lost a wife. He'd been a father and buried his son.

"You don't have to tell me," she murmured. "But I'll listen, if it will help."

"There's not a whole lot to tell, and even less of it will make pleasant listening." He sat in the armchair across from hers, stretching his legs out before him. "I was born just outside Glasgow, but I moved to London the first chance I got," he began.

Belle settled back against the padded leather to listen to his tale.

"I took any work I could get and found I had a skill for making money. It meant I got to associate with people who would never even have looked at me before, including Milah's father. I think she only married me to defy him." He took a sip of whisky, staring broodily ahead. "Things were already strained between us when the chance came up to move to the States. Milah treated the whole thing as an adventure and I think we both believed things would be better once we got here."

"For a while, they were. I moved into the property market and was making more money than ever before. It meant I could buy her this house, let her play at being a businessman's wife. She became pregnant and Bae was born."

He looked up at last. "I never planned on being a father, but when that wee bairn was placed in my arms I knew, finally knew, what life was all about. I've never been as happy." He shook his head. "I thought Milah was happy, too, but it wasn't to last. She grew tired of tending to a baby, tired of this big old house so far from the center of town, tired of the life we shared. She began to visit London more and more frequently and one day she simply told me that she had fallen in love with someone else and was going to leave."

Belle blinked, willing herself not to well up at his story. She already knew from her father how it was going to end, and wasn't sure that she could bear to hear the story again from someone who had lived through it. Robert kept speaking, though. His tone was calm, almost blunt, but the knuckles of the hand that gripped his glass were white with the force of his grip.

"I was driving her to the airport, Bae asleep in the back of the car. We were arguing. She wanted to take Bae with her, told me that she would be back for him, but there was no way I was letting her take him from the country. There was ice on the road."

He took a gulp of whisky, staring straight ahead, and Belle had the impression that he was back in that cold winter's day, watching it unfold before him. "I lost control of the car and we hit oncoming traffic. Both she and Bae were killed outright. My ankle was caught in the car. It took the fire department an hour to reach us and twice that to cut me loose."

"Robert," Belle breathed. To lose both of them like that, for his last words with his wife to have been so full of anger. No wonder he wore his sadness and solitude like a cloak.

His shoulders twitched, as if shrugging off her sympathy. "DLS was mine," he admitted abruptly. "I signed it over to Milah when Bae was born so that she would always have a way of looking after him if anything were to happen to me. I was involved in high risk business and there was always the chance that things might go wrong." He took another sip of his drink, more measured this time. "It didn't even occur to me at the time, but the company didn't return to me on her death. She'd signed it over to her lover."

Suddenly, Belle could see where this story was going.

"It was hardly anything, just a few tired properties near the Thames. Then, a couple of years ago, the London Underground expanded that way, to support the London Olympics. A new station was built over the land. The owner became a wealthy man almost overnight."

"He has a criminal record," Gold informed her with a disdainful twist of his lips. "He was never clever enough to keep himself separate from his deals. Small things like video piracy, then assault. He can't gain entry to the United States for all his wealth. But he still blames me for what happened that night." His voice was bleak. "We both do."

"So instead he's been sending you the flowers." Belle finished, wishing that their chairs weren't so far apart. If ever a man needed a friendly hand in his, it was Robert Gold.

"He can't reach me through the usual means, I'm too well protected."

Suddenly, inappropriately, Belle giggled. "He spent over a thousand dollars on roses." His vendetta would be paying that month's rent to the man he wished to torment.

Somehow it had been the right thing to say, for Robert looked up, shaking off his reverie and offering her a tight smile. "I'm glad," he replied.

"What will you do?" Belle pressed. "The police should be made aware. He might be dangerous."

He pursed his lips. "I'm still considering that. Keep a record of the orders you receive, take his money."

Belle wrinkled her nose. "That seems dishonest."

Robert laughed outright at that. "What a strange creature you are, Belle French." The words could have been mocking, if not for the warmth in his eyes. "Send the flowers to the hospital if you wish, or give the money to charity. Keep it and put it towards doing something you enjoy. I will decide what to do with the current owner of DLS Holdings Limited soon enough."

 


	3. Chapter 3

 

In the quiet that followed Robert's confession, Belle reclined against the cool leather of her chair and sipped slowly at the heavy tumbler of whisky he'd bestowed upon her.

His story wasn't a pleasant one, but while it was clear that Robert expected her to think less of him after the telling, Belle found that her feelings were far harder to discern. The sadness that clung to him was so clear to her now that she could feel it in her own heart, and even the cold calculation in his voice when he spoke of his wife's lover couldn't break the tentative sense of connection that his revelation had forged between them, but trying to marry the two sides of him made her head spin. He was such a frustrating jumble of contradictions. The isolated pawn broker who owned half the town, the connoisseur of whiskey and art who cut his teeth on the streets of Glasgow and London, the man who could break her heart with a story then laugh at her admittedly overdeveloped sense of fair play.

He was dangerous, she realised. Literally so, given his past and his hinted plans for the man sending him flowers, but also in a quieter way than threatened nothing more than her peace of mind.

Gold stood to place his glass back beside the decanter. "Would you like a top up?" he asked, the slightest glimmer of gold highlighting the small smile that still lingered on his lips.

"I can't," Belle apologized sadly. "One's my limit if I'm going to drive home safely."

"Of course," he demurred, taking her tumbler and placing beside his own.

"In fact, I'd probably best be going," she continued, knowing it to be the truth even though she longed to stay. "Lots of flowers to arrange tomorrow." Belle wasn't even certain if it qualified as a joke, but Robert quirked his lips politely. "Thank you for the drink."

"Thank you for your help this evening," he returned graciously. "And for listening."

"I was glad to," Belle answered truthfully. She was beginning to understand that any time with the reclusive antiques dealer was something to be valued. "Well, goodnight, Robert."

He walked her to the door.

"Thank you," he repeated on the doorstep. "This was kind of you."

"There was nothing kind about it," she assured him. "That's just what friends do."

He took her hand between both of his and gave it a gentle squeeze. "Still, it means a lot."

He didn't release her immediately, and they stood in his impressive doorway like a tableau, his dark eyes searching hers. Belle had the fleeting impression that if she were to give him the least bit of encouragement he would tug her towards him, closing the gap between them. What would happen next was destined to remain a mystery as Gold released her, blinking.

"You're welcome," Belle added, unnecessarily. It was only when she spoke aloud that she realised just how long they had stood in silence. Flustered, she dropped her gaze and searched in her purse for her car keys. "I'll see you later."

* * *

 

There were no orders for Robert the next day, and Belle pushed aside her disappointment. While they had agreed that no more flowers would reach him, Belle would have enjoyed an excuse to text him.

Her car was at the mechanics and Moe had needed the van to deliver a wedding arrangement to a hotel just outside of town, so Charlotte was handling the internet deliveries while Belle watched the shop. It was one of the last fine, bright days of fall and Belle had the slightly resentful feeling of being cooped up indoors while everyone else was allowed outdoors to play.

It didn't help that the shop was unusually quiet. Apart from the occasional ping of an a new order being placed online, the only customers she saw were a flustered young man who had apparently forgotten his wedding anniversary and two elderly ladies from St Augustus', there to pick up various blooms for a flower arranging class later that day.

By mid-morning she was thoroughly bored. Even polishing her résumé – her current favourite form of escapism – only served to depress her. No matter how she dressed it up, there was no disguising the fact that she'd spent the last five years working in her father's shop. What had begun as a temporary arrangement had somehow become dispiritingly permanent.

Belle was idly scanning the Mirror's job page online when another new order arrived. Opening it, Belle felt her lips curl into a grin at the request for a dozen red roses, only to falter when she saw that the recipient was a woman. " _Happy Birthday, Snookums_ " was hardly the sort of message that Robert's stalker was likely to send.

_Honestly, what was wrong with her?_ Belle shook her head _. She shouldn't be hoping that the poor man would receive further threats simply to give her something to do._ If she wanted to talk to him that badly, she only had to pick up the phone…

And what, precisely? Ask him out on a date? While it was clear that he was starting to enjoy her company, it didn't change the fact that his wealth and lifestyle put him completely beyond of her reach, and that was before she considered the added complication that he was technically also her landlord.

Like her job prospects, Belle's romantic aspirations didn't hold up too well to the cold light of reality.

Belle sighed loudly as she inspected that morning's delivery of roses to find the twelve that would serve for Snookum's bouquet. Although not as sumptuous as the flowers she had previously prepared for Robert, the plump, deeply coloured blooms had already soured her mood when one of the thorns caught a careless finger, sinking deep enough to draw blood.

Belle gasped, snatching her hand back to examine her abused finger and suddenly found herself fighting back hot tears of frustration. She brought her finger to her mouth only to wince at the bitter taste of greenery from a morning spent in the flower shop. Ducking into the back room, she was still gargling with water from the large, stainless steel sink when the bell above the door rang to announce a customer.

"I'll just be a second!" she called, reaching for the mini first aid kit under the sink to hunt for a Band-Aid. "Fuck," she added quietly, her finger starting to throb. Trying to complete the bouquet with any sort of dexterity would be almost impossible now and her efforts would mean her finger would be sore all day. "Stupid bloody thorns!"

"Is this a bad time, love?"

Belle jumped at the sound of a man's voice coming from the doorway to the store and whirled round to find a tall, dark, almost ridiculously handsome man grinning at her as he leaned idly against the door frame. Knowing that he must have heard her, Belle felt herself flush bright red as she began to stammer an apology.

"Don't worry about it, love," he reassured her. "Although maybe tone the language down a little during work hours, eh? Not all flower enthusiasts have quite such robust sensibilities as myself."

"I'm so sorry!" Belle gasped. "I'll be right out."

The first aid kit slipped from her grasp, landing on the counter with a clatter.

"Here," the stranger offered, stepping into the little room, and picking up the first aid kit to retrieve a Band-Aid. "Is there anything like Savlon in here?" he murmured, riffling through the contents of the little box. "Ah, this'll do," he announced. "Can I see your hand?"

Belle stood very still as he dabbed Neosporin on the cut. Technically customers weren't allowed into the back of the shop but she could hardly ask him to leave when he was being so kind. It was also rather hard to form a coherent sentence with him standing quite so close.

"There you go," he assured her, wrapping the adhesive bandage snugly round her finger. He looked up, laughing blue eyes meeting her own. "I'm no expert, but I think you'll be okay."

He kept hold of her hand for a moment longer than strictly necessary and it flustered Belle further to find that she didn't really mind.

"Thank you. You'd think I'd know to avoid the thorns on rose stems by now," she tried to hide her confusion, tugging her hand away, aware that she was still bright red. "How can I help you?"

She ducked round him to lead him back into the shop, sliding herself around the counter. With the solid table between them, Belle was able to retreat into her smiling, professional persona.

"I'm here to catch up with an old acquaintance," he informed her. "And my ma taught it was rude to turn up empty handed. I'd like a bouquet of autumn flowers, please. You can pick."

"Of course," Belle assured him, glad to be back on more familiar ground. "Have you an idea of how much you'd like to spend?"

"It doesn't matter," he shrugged following her towards the autumnal display by the door. "Those orange lilies are nice."

Between them they decided upon a selection of flowers and Belle got to work on creating a bouquet.

"Are you staying in town?" she asked, wrapping the flowers with carefully folded paper. It took longer than usual as she tried to hold her injured finger out of the way, but the man didn't seem to mind "There's a B&B attached to the diner if you'd like directions?"

"I brought my accommodation with me," he declined. "I've a boat in the harbor," he explained. "Although, if you're in the mood for giving directions, could you tell me, is there a Catholic cemetery in town?"

"Of course," Belle replied. She'd accompanied Moe there enough times to be familiar with the well-tended plot. "It's about two miles outside of town. You can follow the Storybrooke History Trail there. It's a lovely walk this time of year."

"Thank you." The man smiled again, although this time it didn't quite make it to his eyes. "I think I'll be needing a second bouquet."

* * *

 

Belle added the finishing touches of greenery to the ensemble – in a vase this time so that they could stand by the grave – and turned them for the customer to see.

He traced a finger down the waxy curve of the lily before examining the herbs she'd twisted round the stems.

"Rosemary," he noted, looking up. "An unusual touch."

"Rosemary for remembrance," Belle offered.

"I suppose you understand the language of flowers?" He asked quietly, studying her appraisingly. Unlike Robert, he didn't seem impressed by her knowledge. On the contrary, although his broad smile was still fixed upon his face, his easy-going nature seemed to have evaporated.

The sudden change gave Belle a moment's pause and Robert's words of warning ran unbidden through her mind. _"Be careful. These flowers are aimed at me, but you've become involved now. Just… be careful."_

"I know my Hamlet," she offered instead. " _'There’s rosemary, that’s for remembrance; pray, love, remember.'_ " It wasn't a complete mistruth. " _'And there is pansies, that’s for thoughts.'_ Although I always found Ophelia a bit wet myself."

"I see," he answered. "I'm not one for Shakespeare myself. How much will that be?"

Uncertain whether he'd missed the unintentional pun or was simply refusing to dignify it with a response, Belle rang his purchases through the till and accepted his proffered credit card.

"This is a company card," she noted. "Do you have any photo ID with you? It's just with this being a foreign card…"

"Yes of course," he replied, pulling a pale green card from his wallet. "Driver's licence do?"

The transaction complete, Belle handed back both cards and crossed the shop to open the door.

"Just head east until you reach the town square," she directed. "The History Trail is signposted from there."

"Thank you," the customer replied. This time he did not bother to smile, but set off towards the town centre.

Belle watched until he reached the corner at the end of the road before closing the door and returning to the counter. Snookum's roses lay forgotten before her as she forced herself to count slowly to one hundred before reaching into her apron pocket for her phone. It didn't make a difference; her hands shook as she scrolled through her contacts.

She closed her eyes as the call went straight to voicemail. "Robert?" she asked. "Robert, it's Belle. Robert, there was a man at the shop asking about the cemetery. He brought flowers for a graveside and a second bouquet for a friend, and he got so cold when he asked about the language of flowers, but…" She took a deep breath, knowing that she was starting to ramble. Even in her distress she was able to clearly picture the look of exasperation that would cross his face. "Robert, please, you have to be careful. He paid with a company credit card. He works for DLS Holdings."

 

**Author's Note:**

> Huge thanks to Toby for her super-fast beta!


End file.
